The silence that grew loud in me

New Indian Express

16 hours ago

Once on a flight from somewhere to Delhi, I sat comfortably in my usual aisle seat, having long outgrown the youthful urge to sit by the window. The window seat, I had grown to realise, was strategically a bad move. This time, the middle seat beside me was empty, and I closed my eyes in relief. I looked forward to some elbow room and no threat of a possibly smelly, uncouth passenger beside me for the next two-and-a-half hours, an all-too-common occurrence nowadays.
An argument two rows ahead made me open my eyes. A rough, unkempt man was having loud words with the air hostess about a seating mix-up. She looked at the empty seat next to mine, clearly intending to send the man there. I froze in horror. Meeting her eyes, I rolled mine and gave the faintest shake of my head. Her lips twitched slightly, and she led him away to an empty seat elsewhere. When she passed by me before take-off, I discreetly murmured, 'Thank you'. She smiled, shaking her head, as if to say, 'No problem'. The wonderful yet sad thing about this encounter was the instant understanding that silently passed between two Indian women, even across generations, that some men were best avoided.
For years now, especially as I grew older, my strongest feeling about the harassment that I faced—that every Indian girl and woman has faced—has been regret. Regret that I had felt so sullied by the words or deeds of 'eve-teasers' that I usually pretended that nothing had happened. This was the wrong thing to do, I realised because it only gave them the guts to harass more girls and women. My silence during those times was utterly wrong. I now feel that I let other girls down by not shouting out loud every time I was harassed by the boys, men and unclejis of Delhi, calling them out at once and publicly shaming them.